


Offa Excogitari

by jarpad



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Afghanistan (mentioned), Angst, Blood, Blood and Injury, Caring Sherlock, Gen, Hurt John, Hurt/Comfort, John's POV, John-centric, PTSD John, Post HLV, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, bad leg, but lowkey pretend Mary/John didn't happen bc I need my boys living together always, johnlock if you squint, ptsd episode
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-05
Updated: 2017-12-05
Packaged: 2019-02-11 02:10:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,169
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12925098
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jarpad/pseuds/jarpad
Summary: John’s nightmares had returned full force in the past few days. He wasn’t really sure what had brought them on again, but he couldn’t care less at that moment. He just wanted this bullet out of his leg.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> TW for descriptions of blood throughout.

There was a loud gunshot, its deadly echo ricocheting off the walls in the dank Lambeth alley. 

A sharp pain burst through John’s thigh and he cried out harshly, staggering mid sprint. The limb crumpled under his weight and he scrambled for purchase, finding nothing but the wall behind. Skin scraped from his fingers on the rough brick as he failed to keep himself upright, landing hard on his rear, back slamming against the wall, eyes squeezing shut. He grunted loudly, hands automatically reaching for his agonised leg, stinging fingers meeting with hot blood, gushing from the limb at an alarming rate. Shit, it must have hit an artery. His leg was burning, _Christ_. It took all of John’s will to not cry out again, eyes jutting open and fixing them on the wound. 

Except there was no wound. 

No blood. 

Not even a mark in his jeans.

But… he could feel it? The bullet lodged in his leg, tormenting him. Hard metal scorching in his muscle. John could feel it, but there was no _blood_. His hands looked clean, yet there was the grim sensation of hot, tacky liquid coating them, fingers slick with the stuff. _Why_ was there no blood? His damaged hands scrambled at his leg, bunching the material of his jeans. There wasn’t even a hole. No smoking circle, blackened or charred from heat. His breathing turned erratic at the incorrect scene before him. 

And then suddenly Sherlock was there, crouching in front of him. Quickly and efficiently moving John’s hands out of the way, assessing the leg, then looking up at John, forehead creased, mouth moving. There was no sound. The doctor’s brow furrowed. It looked like his flatmate was saying his name, quite forcefully, but he couldn’t hear anything. He tried to open his mouth, lips not obeying the command. Sherlock’s confused look melted into something shaken. He placed gentle hands on John’s shoulders, leaning closer, speaking faster. 

Sound rushed in all at once. The loud noise of rush hour traffic, harsh barks from dogs echoing nearby, his own erratic breaths. Sherlock. 

“-hat’s wrong, John, tell me what I can do?” Sherlock sounded concerned. John’s lips still weren’t obeying him. He shook his head, a breath catching in his throat.

“Are you with me? You can hear me?” The detective confirmed, tone momentarily flashing relief. John nodded again, the movement sluggish. His head dipped forward suddenly, not of his own volition.

“ _John_ ,” Sherlock startled, cool fingers touching the doctor’s jaw and lifting his head back up. John blinked, his breath speeding up again.

“Shh,” Sherlock coddled, a hand still supporting John’s head, the other pressing against the doctor’s chest, keeping him still. Grounding him.

“M’okay.” John managed, though the words got a little lost along the way. Sherlock thankfully got the gist.

“You’re fine, John. You’re safe.” Sherlock muttered, grabbing his phone from his pocket and contemplating it briefly. “Hospital?” He wondered out loud, the mumbled words meant only for himself. The doctor shook his head immediately, lips parting a low groan in his efforts to dispel the idea from his flatmate.

“Alright. Home it is.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was originally a oneshot, but I just couldn’t help myself.


	2. Chapter 2

John was briefly aware of Sherlock talking, rapidly firing off orders to someone, but he wasn’t sure who. There wasn’t anyone else in the alleyway. All the doctor could feel was pulsating agony in his leg, throbbing in time with his heart. The bullet was lodged in between his Sartorius and Rectus Femoris muscles. They were spasming from the pressure. John gripped the area blindly, trying to relieve it. 

He looked down, realising Sherlock’s hand was still on his chest, long pale fingers splayed against the dark fabric of his shirt. And then the detective was talking to him again, though the words didn’t sound right. John frowned at the floor.

“John, look at me.” The noises formed sense suddenly. Sherlock’s baritone voice was strained, a pitch higher than usual. It took the doctor a moment to gain some sort of control of his neck muscles, lifting his head up languidly, eyes taking a few seconds to place the location of his flatmate’s face.

“Can you stand?” Sherlock’s pale blue eyes gazed right into John’s. The detective’s brow was creased in the middle, though the doctor couldn’t figure out what expression it was. Could really figure anything out at the moment, his mind was fuzzy from pain, chest tight.

“Shot.” John managed, fingers gripping tighter around the area, his breath speeding up a fraction. His head dropped again, looking for the wound. There still wasn’t anything there. No blood spilling through his fingers, no dark puddle underneath. Cool fingers brought his chin up to eye level again, remaining at his jaw.

“No John, you’re not.” Sherlock replied. His eyes were hard, the crease in his brow deepening, lips twisting down in what John vaguely labelled as displeasure. Or worry. Maybe it was anger. The doctor couldn’t tell. “Do you think you can stand?” The detective repeated.

“Leg’s gone.” John shook his head, vision blurring at the edges. He let his hands drop from the aforementioned limb. They weren’t doing anything to relieve the pain. And what had his flatmate said? He wasn’t shot?

“Can you try?” Sherlock’s voice was soft, patient even. John frowned at the uncharacteristic tone. The man must be desperate.

“Mm,” John hummed, the sound terse in his throat. Sherlock’s hands withdrew from his chin and chest, the doctor suddenly listing to the side without the support. He was saved from collapsing completely by the detective catching him and guiding him back upright.

John felt numb. It was like Afghanistan all over again. There’d been agonising pain for a good several minutes, and then he couldn’t feel anything. A slow numbness, coming directly from the wound, spreading right from his hair follicles down to the tips of his toes. Couldn’t feel a thing. Not his flatmate’s hands supporting his head and torso, not the bullet in his leg, not the blood that should be there but _wasn’t_. He was floating, almost. John’s eyes dragged down to his leg again. There wasn’t anything there. Why was nothing there? Where was the blood? The wound? 

Then, as if by some sort of magic, or pure force of will, there was. 

A small dot began smoking on his jeans, the material blackening and melting, forming a perfectly symmetrical circle. Just the right size of a small calibre bullet. Probably a Glock 17. 9mm. He’d seen them in Scotland Yard, service weapons locked away. 

John frowned at the hole in his jeans. A few seconds passed and nothing happened. Then blood abruptly poured from the opening. The crimson liquid was thick and obscenely bright, dripping over his thigh, spilling like an overflowing sink. There was a menacing stain on the denim of his trousers, spreading fast, quickly covering the entirety of his upper leg. The rust-scented liquid was pooling on the floor beneath, its hot copper stench clogging in the doctor’s throat. John’s breath caught. He couldn’t suck another in. Lungs felt tight. 

The puddle was swiftly growing larger, the once bright fluid turning darker with every passing second. The pain was coming back again, thrumming lightly in his muscle at first, becoming sharper unexpectedly. He strained for air at the onslaught. The doctor searched for his flatmate’s face. Sherlock hadn’t noticed his leg. Why wasn’t Sherlock helping him? A light sweat broke out on his forehead.

“Need,” John found his voice, a pained, breathless one, “need to staunch the flow.”

Apparently that was an odd thing to say, because Sherlock looked wholly confused for a few seconds. The man’s hand fell from John’s jaw as he looked down at the leg, then back to the doctor’s agonised expression. His own morphed into something quite troubled. Frightened. 

“John, you’re not shot. There’s nothing there. It’s in your mind, you’re imagining it.” The words were stupid. Made no sense. It was right there. There was blood everywhere. The dark puddle had spread so far it was nearly touching Sherlock’s shoes. Looked black in the growing shadow of the alleyway.

“S’a lot of blood. Might’ve hit an artery.” His voice slurred the sentences. Probably from blood loss, he noted. Sherlock, he also noted, frowned even more.

“Right. Right okay.” The detective said haltingly, eyes darting around as if there was something to deduce. He pursed his lips for a moment, before nodding suddenly, unhooking his scarf from around his neck one-handed, the other supporting the doctor. 

“John, point it out to me. Point me to the wound.” John’s lip twisted down. Was the man blind? “Humour me, please.” The words sounded desperate. He had to help. 

The movement was hard, leg throbbing, but the doctor managed to hover a finger over the bullet hole. The hand was shaking. From exertion, he decided. A bead of cold perspiration dripped down his temple. 

Sherlock took his wrist then, lowering it to the ground and gingerly lifting John’s injured leg, eliciting a wince from the doctor. The detective wrapped the length of navy fabric around the wound, tying it tightly in a knot on the top, right over the injury to form a tourniquet. John gasped, startled.

“How’s that?” Sherlock asked, searching John’s pallid face.

“Better. Thanks.” The doctor replied, tone strangely surprised. There was a moderate reprieve from the pain. John could think a little clearer. And the puddle of blood looked oddly smaller. Maybe it was a trick of the light. It was getting dark unusually quickly, after all.

“Can you stand now?” Sherlock’s voice sounded. John looked up, meeting his flatmate’s gaze.

“Can try.” He said. His chest didn’t feel so tight suddenly. It was getting easier to breathe.

“There’s a car here for us, it’ll take us back home, John. Does that sound alright?” John nodded.

“Home’s good.” 


	3. Chapter 3

“Can’t see much,” John stumbled, catching Sherlock’s eye, “s’getting dark out.” The detective tightened his grip, looking around briefly then meeting John’s gaze.

“It’s not that dark yet.” 

“Is.” John managed, leaning more heavily on his flatmate, though he would deny that later. Sherlock frowned.

They were nearing the end of the alleyway, Sherlock with an arm around John’s upper torso, John’s around the detective’s lower back. Their progress was halting, the doctor’s limp slowing them inordinately.

Blood was still pouring from the wound, rhythmic plops of the liquid splatting on the floor as they walked. Medically, John decided, he should have collapsed by now. He’d lost a few litres of blood at least. One leg of his jeans was dark, inky in the waning light, a stark contrast to the lighter denim on his other leg.

Up ahead a black sedan sat idling on the curb, left rear door open, no one else in sight.

“We’re nearly there, John. Nearly there, stay with me. Don’t stop now.” Sherlock’s voice murmured in his ear. The doctor realised they’d stopped moving, his legs locked, upper half slumping heavily against his flatmate.

“Sorry,” he mumbled, trying to gain some sort of control again. They set off once more, his feet dragging heavily against the concrete. He looked up. The dark sedan looked further away than before. It was so dark out, John could barely see it. Where were the street lamps? 

The world spun. Would have lost his balance if it weren’t for Sherlock.

“Okay,” Sherlock’s voice spoke suddenly, “sit back now.” He was happy to oblige, sinking back and finding soft leather. Much better than the alleyway, he thought offhandedly. John felt hands on his legs, a small hiss of pain escaping his lips.

“Work with me, John.” Sherlock implored. John looked up at his flatmate languidly. He could hardly see the man’s face, it was so dark. He somewhat discerned that his flatmate wanted to move his legs. The first leg in was easy. The second was a different story.

John lost some time after that.

Gained some awareness when someone tapped his cheek a while later. 

“We’re on Baker Street, John. You need to give me a hand.” Sherlock’s voice urged calmly. John reluctantly tore his eyes from, what he discerned now, was the floor. Found his flatmate next to him. Weren’t they in the alleyway still? His eyes dragged around the new environment. They were in a car. When did that happen. He looked back at his leg momentarily. The blood had slowed significantly, soaking Sherlock’s scarf a deep burgundy, navy tips of dry material poking at the top of the knot. John was surprised he had any blood left to expel. 

“Stained the seats.” He mumbled to himself, tremoring left hand lifting, warily touching a finger to the dark, slick leather, maroon with his vital fluid. 

“My brother won’t mind.” Sherlock replied. A cool draft of air intruded from the detective’s side of the car. The man had opened the door and slipped out, closing the hatch gently before moving around to John’s side. The doctor’s door clicked opened.

“Scarf’s ruined too.” John continued, looking up at his flatmate morosely. 

“I have another.” Sherlock smiled briefly. The expression was forced. He wasn’t happy about the ruined scarf, John decided.

“Sorry. S’your favourite.” John pursued, lips twisting down. Sherlock leant in the car, in front of the doctor, unfastening his seatbelt. The man’s familiar scent filled John’s nostrils and lungs, willing away the metallic odour that had layered itself thick in his throat. He closed his eyes briefly at the comforting smell, opening them once the body drew away. John leant towards his flatmate, wanting it back.

“I’d rather it was used for this than warming my neck.” The detective replied with half a smile. A little less forced this time. It reached his eyes anyway. John decided that was good enough for now. 

“Come on,” Sherlock willed, “legs out.” John hummed his compliance, the noise halting in his throat when he moved his wounded leg. He grit his teeth, holding his breath whilst they manoeuvred up and out of the car.

“Breathe, John.” Sherlock’s voice soothed, his free hand pressing reassuringly against the doctor’s chest, the other wrapped around his back in a similar position from earlier. John tightened his grip on the other’s waist. He huffed out the breath he had been holding, vision brightening momentarily. It wasn’t so dark as before.

“That’s it. Not far now.” The detective comforted. They walked unevenly to the front door of 221b, Sherlock’s hand removing from John’s chest to fumble with the lock. The door seemingly opened of its own accord. No. Wait. Mrs Hudson was there. 

“Sher _lock_ ,” she chided without real blame, “what have you done to him?”

“I can assure you Mrs Hudson, I had no part in this.” The detective replied smoothly, hitching John up in his grip. 

“Oh dear,” she worried out loud, stepping back to allow room for them to get in. They struggled up the front step, entering the small stretch of hallway. John smiled at Mrs Hudson, trying to assure her everything was fine. Though he feared it may have come out as more of a grimace. She pursed her lips together, retreating further into the hall so they had room. 

“I’ll put some tea on, shall I?” She offered, looking rather lost, like she wanted to help but didn’t know what she could do. 

“Thanks,” John nodded at her, left hand curling into a fist at a sudden sharp pain that throbbed in his shoulder. Where had that come from? Sherlock must have felt him tense, because he shot the doctor a concerned glance. 

“Tea’s good,” Sherlock muttered in agreement, tightening his grip on the doctor, as if he feared John might fall at any second. Mrs Hudson nodded with a quick smile before heading to 221a, mumbling something about boys not being careful. 

“Ready for the stairs?” Sherlock asked, voice quiet.

“Mm.” John hummed, trepidation flushing the single note. 

They reached the bottom of the staircase, John grabbing at the bannister with clumsy fingers. It took a fair few minutes to get up to the flat, at one point, John silently wondering whether he should just sit on his arse and heave himself up backwards like a toddler. Decided he had a little more pride than that.

Finally on the main landing of 221b, Sherlock fumbled one-handedly with the kitchen door, ignoring the open one ahead that lead to the lounge.

“Where’re you going?” John asked, frowning, hand resting on the wall, fingers stinging.

“You need to lie down.” Sherlock replied simply, managing to open the door and letting it swing open. 

“Bed’s upstairs.” The doctor said, a little dumbly, hand flopping to his side. 

“Yes, but do you really want to spend another ten minutes trying to get up there? Mine’s much closer.”

“S’your bed.”

“Astute.” Sherlock replied. John rolled his eyes, regretting the action when his balance tilted. He almost slipped entirely from the detective’s grasp, if it weren’t for Sherlock’s quick reflexes. 

“Just a little further, John. Give me a hand,” Sherlock asked, voice straining from holding the doctor’s weight. John made a face at the strange words, but complied, pushing himself a little more upright and shoving his hand into Sherlock’s empty one. The other frowned slightly, lips quirking after a moment.

“I didn’t mean… come on.” The detective said, stepping into the kitchen. John stepped after him, pain searing through his thigh again, grip tightening on Sherlock’s hand. The doctor halted, eyes squeezing shut.

“Nearly there.” 

It took the doctor another minute to gather up the strength to carry on, then the pair a few more minutes to make it to Sherlock’s bedroom. John decided the bedroom was very Sherlock-y. Books. Butterflies. Bees. Science-y things he couldn’t name at that current moment in time. 

“Sit down, John. Slowly.”

He sat. Slowly. 

“You can… let go now.” Sherlock ventured, patting the hand clenched tightly around his own. John nodded languidly, eyes drooping shut. 

“Lie back, here. Sleep, John. You’re alright now.” 

“Yeah?”  
  
“You’re home.”

* * *

When John awoke, it was to a dull ache in his shoulder, and a tired looking flatmate perched on a chair in the corner of the vaguely familiar room.

“Why am I in your bed?” John mumbled.

“John?” Sherlock’s hands dropped from his chin, head shooting up.

“What-” The question died on the doctor’s lips when pain spiked through him, eyes squeezing shut.

“John, what hurts?” His flatmate was lightly touching his arm.

“Shoulder. Leg.”

There was a small exhale. “Sit up. Let me take a look.” 

John blinked a few times before complying, ignoring the fact that the detective was basically doing all the work.

The scarf was still on his leg. Dark with dried blood, red flaking onto the mattress below. It didn’t appear to be bleeding anymore though, which was a welcome relief. 

“How are you feeling?” Sherlock asked, meeting the doctor’s eyes with a curious gaze. It deepened with worry at the pain creased forehead of John Watson.

“Foggy.” 

“Naturally.” The detective’s eyes moved around, assessing the doctor once more before sitting down on the edge of the bed. 

“Can’t solve it?” John asked after a quiet moment.

Sherlock’s brow creased. “What?”

“You get that look when there’s a case you can’t solve. What is it this time?”

“… You.”

John snorted. “Poetic.” 

The corner of Sherlock’s lip curled up.

“‘ll get you a new one.” The doctor said suddenly. Blurted out, really.

“Mm?” Sherlock hummed, questioning. John realised he’d been quite vague.

“Scarf. I’ll get you a new one.” Sherlock frowned once more. He looked like he wanted to say something, but didn’t venture the thought. 

There was a thick silence. John glanced down at his bloodied leg again, blinking several times as the image in front of him flickered. A mix of maroon, then denim and navy, flashing and fuzzing his vision like a slow strobe light. One moment there was dark blood staining the material, the next it was clean. The doctor’s lip twisted down, knowing the dwindling effects of an episode when he saw them.

“It’s not real, is it.” He said quietly, looking up. Sherlock’s expression was deliberative for a few seconds.

“No, it’s not.” The detective confirmed. John nodded. Silence returned to the flat for a few minutes, both men thinking.

“It wasn’t there to start with.” John said suddenly, catching Sherlock’s eye, “The blood. There wasn’t anything, actually. It was a bit disconcerting, y’know,” John half laughed, the sound self-conscious and stiff in the quiet of the flat. “But now it won’t go away.” His false smile faded slightly. He curled his left hand into a fist, short nails digging into his palms. 

“It will eventually.” 

“Yeah.” 

Neither of them knew what to say after that, it seemed. 

“Tea?” Sherlock murmured. 

“Love some.”

The detective slipped out after minor hesitation, leaving John to contemplate what must have just happened. 

An episode… after _so_ long. And of this magnitude? How had this happened? John had known he’d been slipping, but he didn’t realise it’d been this bad. The nightmares were a sure sign, but there had been no obvious trigger for them. No evidence to conclude anything more would occur. So why had it? 

“Magnussen.” Sherlock’s voice sounded.

“What?” John looked up with a frown, discerning he'd been staring into space longer for than he'd realised. He took the proffered mug and warmed his hands with it, murmuring, “Ta.”

“The only reasonable conclusion I’ve come to in regards to the trigger.” Sherlock raised his own mug to his lips, taking a quick sip of the hot liquid.

“That was months ago.”

“Yes, but Hendrickson reminded you of him, didn’t he?”

John frowned, thinking over their current case. Another criminal mastermind, a genius, psychopathic tendencies, knew what the doctor was thinking before he himself had thought it. It did make sense, that John had subconsciously linked the two criminals together.

“He, yeah… he did, now you mention it.”

“You should have told me about the nightmares, John.”

The doctor blew out an exasperated breath. “And why is that? What good would it have done to distract you from the case? I had them under control.”

“You were shouting half the street down in the middle of the night.”

John’s cheeks reddened.

“It’s nothing to be embarrassed about, or ashamed, John. You should have said something. Maybe we could have worked through them together.” 

“Maybe.” The doctor mumbled, unconsciously clenching the mug in his hands. 

“I know we’re not very good at… _talking_ … about important things, “the detective swallowed, “but we can talk about this. If it happens again. Even if it’s just a bad dream, you can tell me.”

“You don’t have to do that,” John began.

“I want to.” Sherlock interrupted. Their eyes met, gaze held for a pause. John looked away when the intensity of his flatmate’s stare became too much.

“Thanks.” 

“You’re welcome.” 

The detective pushed up gently from the bed, sipping his tea simultaneously.

“Get some rest, John.”

“You too. You can use my bed, if you want.”

Sherlock’s mouth moved of it’s own accord, but stopped mid way.

“Thank you.”

John nodded. The detective took that as his sign to leave.

“Sherlock?” The doctor asked, halting the other in his tracks. “Why are we at home?” 

“What do you mean?” 

“Shouldn’t we be, you know, at the hospital or something?” 

Sherlock glanced at the doctor from the doorway. “You asked to come home.”

John scoffed. “I wasn’t exactly in my right mind at that moment, Sherlock.”

“No,” the detective frowned, “but you wanted it.”

“Fair enough.”

* * *

It was about 4pm the next day when Mrs Hudson caught him mid way up the stairs to 221b.

“John?”

“Oh, Mrs Hudson?” He swivelled on the stairs. “Are you alright?”

“Yes, are you?” She was frowning now. The doctor frowned back. 

“I’m good, thanks?” 

“Your leg?”

John looked down at it, then back at her in realisation. “Ah, yes. We were just err… practising.” 

“Practising?”  
  
“Practising an… _escape_ tactic, from any criminals we might face in the future.” He was grasping at straws and she knew it. The landlady’s mind was ticking away at the excuse. Then a twinkle lit up her eye.

“Oh, yes. I see.”

“You… _do?”_ John exhaled quickly, a little shocked at the acceptance.

“Roleplaying, isn’t it? I’ve heard that’s all the rage nowadays, though I’ve not tried something _quite_ that extreme myself.” Her eyes were practically sparkling as she turned back towards her flat. “Please do keep the noise down though you two, I don’t need any more complaints from the neighbours.” 

John’s confusion turned into horrified embarrassment, red blooming on his neck. “What? No- Mrs- _No_ , it’s not what you think-”

The door of 221a slammed shut.

“Mrs Hudson, it’s _really_ not-”

The hoover started up abruptly.

John let out a loud sigh, rolling his eyes before trudging back upstairs to the safety of his home.

“Home, Sherlock.”

“Good!” His flatmate replied from the kitchen, excitement buzzing in his tone. “We have a lead on Hendrickson.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fin! 
> 
> This was originally written for another fic I have in the works, but I’d ended up doing so much to poor John in that that I made this a stand alone. No idea if or when the bigger fic will be posted as there is a lot of work that needs to be done on it (which is made even harder when you’re on an autocorrecting Mac and have no beta to go through things for you). We’ll see. Maybe I’ll make that a goal for 2018, post the 100k+ fic. 
> 
> Hope you enjoyed!

**Author's Note:**

> Offa Excogitari. Shot imagined.


End file.
